The Girl at the End of the Line

by Charles Mathes

  Molly nervously picked up the phone and punched out the number that was written on the notepad. After several rings a male voice answered with a syrupy British accent.

  “Telephone of Mr. Richard Julian and Lady Stacey Farfel-Julian.”

  “Is this Richard Julian?” asked Molly, holding her breath.

  “This is his residence. He is not here at present.”

  “When do you expect him?”

  “Her ladyship and Mr. Julian are traveling. They are not expected back until April.”

  “April!” exclaimed Molly. “Where have they gone?”

  “Who is calling, please?” said the voice, polite but firm.

  “My name is Molly O’Hara. I’m a relative of Mr. Jellinek’s, I mean Mr. Julian’s and … and … there’s been a death in the family. I need to speak with him personally. I’m calling from the United States.”

  “One extends one’s condolences, madam. Mr. Julian and her ladyship left yesterday for the Bedlingham dog show. They are staying with friends for whom we do not have an address. After Bedlingham, madam and sir are scheduled to leave for the first leg of their trip. They’ll be staying in New Zealand beginning in September. I can forward a message to them there if you so desire.”

  “How long are they going to be at this dog show?” said Molly.

  “They depart Bedlingham on Friday,” said the voice. “The aeroplane leaves the following day.”

  “Can you tell me where it’s being held? The Bedlingham dog show?”

  “Why, in Bedlingham, of course. Will there be a message, madam?”

  “No, no message. But thank you. I’ll try to reach him some other way.”

  Molly said good-bye and hung up the phone. Then she sat staring out the window for a long time, lost in thought. A series of pictures paraded through her mind. Her mother with the bullet hole in her forehead. Margaret Jellinek’s lifeless body, the pillow on her chest. Clyde. Daddy. The red-haired man behind the wheel of the white Mercury Sable. Taffy. Alice Markham. David Azaria, looking dark and intense, his intelligent eyes blazing.

  She felt a hand on her arm and looked up. Nell was standing next to her, trying to smile and not succeeding very well.

  “Welcome back,” said Molly softly, taking her hand. “Are you okay?”

  Nell nodded.

  “Do you understand what happened, honey? About the shop? About Taffy?”

  Nell nodded again. Her face was pale but her eyes were alive again. Molly wanted to take her home and protect her, keep her safe. But their home was gone. And Molly felt like they would never be safe again.

  “Look, Nell,” Molly said soberly. “I need to be honest with you. I don’t want you to be frightened, but I think the explosion at the shop may not have been an accident. Someone might have done it deliberately.”

  Nell tilted her head questioningly.

  “No, I don’t know why. I don’t even know if I’m right. But there were those stories in the paper over the past few days, about how it wasn’t us who died. I’m worried about that red-haired man. Or maybe it’s somebody else I should be worried about. Or maybe I’m imagining the whole thing. All I know is that if there’s really someone out there who doesn’t like us, he might try again to hurt us, now that the news is out that we’re still alive. Do you understand?”

  Nell nodded once more. Molly smiled and patted her sister’s hand.

  “The only problem is,” she said grimly, “what are we going to do about it?”

  Oscar had lent them his car for the morning, a cozy old Volvo. When they returned from Stanley Hupperman’s office, the old jeweler was watering his vegetables with a garden hose.

  Molly stood next to a neat row of onions and told him about the insurance check, about her fears for their safety, about Richard Julian and how he would soon be unreachable for months. Oscar listened with his usual quiet calmness, but the concern was evident on his face.

  “So what do you think?” Molly asked when she had finished.

  Oscar stood in straight-backed silence for a moment and gave the tomatoes a final drink.

  “Let me ask you a question, Molly,” he said as he turned off the hose and sat down on the porch steps. “Why are the two of you sticking around in Pelletreau like sitting ducks?”

  “That’s what I’ve been wondering myself,” said Molly. “There’s not much to keep us here anymore, is there? We’ve got no home, no business. None of our family ever cared about us except Grandma, and she’s gone now. Taffy …”

  Molly let her voice taper off.

  “Is the insurance settlement enough to get you out from under the mortgage for your shop?” asked Oscar.

  Molly nodded.

  “Would you have enough left over to make a fresh start somewhere else? Maybe with that family of your Grandma’s up North you’ve been wondering about?”

  “I think so.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “The problem,” said Molly, taking a deep breath, “is doing the right thing, being decent human beings. How can we just run away when somebody may have murdered Taffy? Maybe murdered Grandma, too.”

  “But the police don’t think anybody was murdered, do they?”

  “No,” said Molly miserably.

  “And you and your sister may be in real danger.”

  Molly looked at the ground and didn’t answer. Oscar stared at her for a minute, then smiled a kind, knowing smile.

  “I think you’ve already decided what you’re going to do,” he said finally in a gentle voice. “I think you’re just looking for some wise older party to give you permission, aren’t you?”

  “We know Richard Julian will be at the Bedlingham dog show through Thursday,” said Molly, looking up. “That gives us only two days, not counting today, to get there and talk to him. If we don’t do it now, we won’t be able to reach him for months and months.”

  “Then it seems to me you’ve got too much to do to stand around gabbing with an old man,” said Oscar, rising to his feet. “You’ve got passports?”

  “In our safe-deposit box at the bank,” said Molly, nodding. “We were planning to take a trip to Mexico one day. Can we really just leave, Oscar? Just walk away from this whole mess?”

  “Not if you don’t have plane tickets, you can’t,” said Oscar, leading them to the back door. “You phone the airport and see if you can get a flight or this will all be academic. I’ll call Evelyn. She’ll be able to settle things for you here, take care of loose ends.”

  Evelyn Winnick Trice was Oscar’s daughter, an attorney with a Camp Avenue law firm.

  “I’ve never run away from my problems before,” said Molly, shaking her head. “I don’t feel very brave about doing this.”

  “You’re just looking out for your own interests,” said Oscar, glancing at his watch. “And your sister’s. The police can handle the rest. It’s their job, not yours. Now come on, let’s get going. It’s past eleven already and you’ve got a lot to do if you’re going to get out of here today.”

  Oscar called his daughter and told her he was on his way over, while Molly and Nell went upstairs to gather up their few belongings from Oscar’s spare room. Then Molly called the airport. All the planes to London from Raleigh-Durham were sold out, but she was able to book two seats on an 8:00 P.M. flight out of New York City. They needed to get to the Pelletreau airport by four to make their connection.

  Oscar drove the car himself to the bank, where Molly retrieved Margaret Jellinek’s ring, the few important papers they had, and their passports and closed out the safe-deposit box. She also deposited the check from Mason-Dixon American Casualty into their account, taking enough money in traveler’s checks to keep them going for a while. All the while she could hear Taffy’s voice booming in her mind that she was being an impulsive nitwit.

  But Taffy was dead. And whoever had blown her to bits had meant it for Molly and Nell.

  “What about clothes?” said Oscar as they pulled out of the bank’s parking lot. “E
verything you owned was blown up with your store. What are you going to do about clothes for the rest of your life?”

  “I guess we’ll have to buy some.”

  “Well, I’m glad one of us is still thinking.”

  They stopped at the Wellers Square Mall, which was on the way to Evelyn’s office. Molly and Nell augmented their wardrobe with enough extra clothing and necessities until they could shop more leisurely. They also bought two good suitcases, large enough to live out of for a while, and a small brown leather shoulder bag where Molly could put their money, passports, and family papers.

  When they left Evelyn an hour later, Oscar’s daughter had power of attorney to wind up all Molly and Nell’s legal and financial affairs in Pelletreau. Evelyn would settle their mortgage with the bank, pay whatever credit card bills came in, and take care of their other obligations like tracking down the Nicholsons and refunding their four-hundred-dollar deposit on the chest of drawers that had been blown to smithereens along with Enchanted Cottage Antiques. Oscar’s daughter would also sell the Porcupine Road property and wire the proceeds to Molly when she and Nell got settled.

  There was one more stop Oscar insisted on making before driving them to the airport. At his son’s jewelry store the old man picked out a thick gold chain for which he refused any payment.

  “We’re the ones who should be giving you a present, Oscar,” said Molly. “For all you’ve done today. For putting us up when we really needed help. And for putting up with us.”

  “Oh, hush, Molly,” said Oscar, opening the chain’s clasp and stringing Margaret Jellinek’s ring on it. “None of my friends have ever returned from the dead before. Just knowing you’re still around, driving people crazy is present enough for me.”

  “Thanks, Oscar.”

  “I don’t much like you traipsing around the world with this emerald, though. Why don’t you let my son keep it here for you in his safe? You could always come back for it when you need it.”

  “My grandmother traipsed around for fifty years with this ring, and she was fine,” said Molly, letting him put the chain with the ring on it over her head. She then slipped the ensemble beneath her blouse to conceal it. She did not say what she knew was in Oscar’s mind as well as her own. She was not coming back. She was never coming back to Pelletreau.

  At the airport Molly kissed him on one cheek, Nell kissed him on the other. It had all happened so quickly that Molly hadn’t even had time to think of a fancy good-bye speech. Neither had Oscar, which was probably just as well. If they said any more, somebody was going to cry. The old jeweler watched in silence as their plane sped down the runway and ascended into the sky.

  Three hours later Molly and Nell had checked their luggage through to Heathrow and were in the international departures terminal at Kennedy airport, waiting for their flight to board.

  “Wait here and don’t talk to any strangers,” said Molly. “I have to make a call.”

  Nell pulled the New York Yankees baseball cap that they had bought at the gift shop down over her eyes and made a big show of pretending to be asleep.

  Molly walked over to one of the nearby phones, took out the slip of paper on which David Azaria had written, and punched in his phone number.

  “This isn’t exactly David Azaria,” answered David’s voice after a ring, “but it can be if you leave your name and number after the beep, and he’ll get back to you.”

  Molly was disappointed but not surprised. Of course she would get David’s machine at this hour. He had a performance tonight. He was probably at the theater already.

  “Hi, David,” she said, feeling awkward saying his name aloud. It sounded more familiar in her head where it had been repeating itself endlessly since she had last seen him. “This is Molly. Molly O’Hara. I’m sorry I miss you. Missed you.”

  Oh God, she thought, I sound like an idiot.

  “We’re at Kennedy airport, which is why I’m calling,” Molly rattled on, suddenly manic. “Look, that address and phone number I gave you for us in North Carolina, they aren’t good anymore. I didn’t want you to worry if you called and didn’t get an answer. Not that you would worry probably … . I mean, not that I expected you to call or anything. I just thought … I just thought I’d let you know.”

  Molly wasn’t usually tongue-tied. She hated answering machines. She wished she could start her message over, but it was too late.

  “Anyway, it’s too complicated to go into now, but we’ve left Pelletreau for good. We’ve got a line on Richard Jellinek and we’re on our way to England to see if we can talk to him. I’m not sure where we’re headed after that. I’ll call when we’re settled. Just to let you know where we are so you won’t worry. Not that I expect you to worry, there’s nothing to worry about, I think … I mean I don’t think … I mean …”

  Molly tried to think of what else to say. Nothing intelligent came to mind.

  “I mean I’m sorry I missed you,” she said again. “Nell says hello. Bye.”

  Nell had turned the baseball cap backward and had a big smile on her face when Molly returned. Her eyes darted back and forth, watching the promenade of travelers on their way to foreign places. The minute the plane had taken off from the Pelletreau airport, she had come alive again.

  Molly felt different, too. It was more than just relief at being away from Pelletreau with its sad memories and the danger that may or may not still stalk them there. By walking away from all she had ever known it was like she was letting herself be reborn. There could be a new Molly: a Molly without the terrible burden of the past; a Molly with infinite possibilities; a Molly who could live her life, not just think it—just as David had said.

  She had worried that she would feel like a coward, running away. But she didn’t. She felt safe. And more important, Nell was safe, too. That was the whole point of burning your bridges behind you, wasn’t it? No one could use them to come after you.

  “David wasn’t there,” Molly said to Nell as an attendant announced over the loudspeaker that their flight was ready to board. “I left a message.”

  Nell nodded happily, picked up their carry-on bag full of guidebooks to Great Britain, magazines, and sundries they had purchased for the trip, and led her sister once again into the unknown, this time for keeps.

  Eight

  Local time was eight-fifteen when the plane landed in a very rainy London the next morning. The actual flight had taken only six hours, and Molly had gotten little sleep.

  Between fitful naps over the Atlantic she had thought about David Azaria and had read about England in her guidebooks. The England of Chaucer, Shakespeare, and Dickens. The England of kings and queens and Ascot. The England of the Clews transferware platter that had once graced the mantlepiece of Enchanted Cottage Antiques and which was now blue-and-white earthenware dust.

  Heathrow airport was hardly the quaint England of guidebooks, however. It was a hectic, modern place, which bore about as much resemblance to the land of Robin Hood and Thomas Chippendale as tin did to tintinnabulation. Businesswomen sat on plastic furniture typing on laptop computers. Men jabbered with their stockbrokers from tiny handheld cellular phones. Slick advertisements bombarded travelers from every wall. Aside from the customs officers speaking in British accents, Molly and Nell might have still been in New York.

  “Any suggestions on what we do now?” said Molly to her sister as they made their way through the crowds.

  Nell made hopeful motions of a fork bringing things into her mouth.

  “You just had a croissant on the plane,” Molly said, rolling her eyes. “You’re turning into a human eating machine, do you know that?”

  Nell grinned and nodded.

  Molly hadn’t worked out any brilliant plan about how to find their grandfather, Richard Julian, beyond just getting to the Bedlingham dog show and asking around for him. Bedlingham, she knew from a map in one of the guidebooks, was up in the northeast of England, near York. Problem number one was how to get there from here.


  Happily there was someone who might be able to help. He sat in an information kiosk not far from the baggage claim, a man as thin as a yardstick whose Adam’s apple protruded nearly as far as his nose.

  “We’d like to go to Bedlingham,” Molly said politely, approaching his desk.

  “You are Yanks?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you desire to go to Bedlingham?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Good Lord, a miracle.”

  “Is there some problem about going to Bedlingham?” asked Molly, concerned. The man had placed his hands together as if in prayer and was smiling beatifically at the ceiling.

  “No, not at all,” he said, craning his long neck back from heaven. “I’m just deeply moved to have an American with a sensible request. Yesterday I had eleven of your people who wished to have tea with a member of the royal family, four with messages for rock stars, and one poor woman from Beverly Hills, California, who insisted on being told Richard Burton’s phone number.”

  “But Richard Burton is dead,” said Molly.

  The man nodded sadly.

  “You see why I am presently in night school studying chiropractic. Soon I shall be no longer Mr. Tourist Information, knows all, tells all; I shall be Doctor Tourist Information, readjusts your spine. You are interested in dogs.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Dogs. If you wish to go to Bedlingham this time of year it must be for the dog show.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” said Molly. “I didn’t know it was so famous.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Mr. Tourist Information, tapping the tips of his long fingers together. “The Bedlingham Dog Show is the major event of the British canine world. I know this, you see, because my aunt Edwina is a positive fiend for schnauzers. She’s actually begun to look like one, poor dear.”

  “So what’s the best way for us to get to Bedlingham from here?” asked Molly again.

  “Do you drive?” asked the man, then held up his hands in mock horror. “No. Silly question. Of course you drive. All Americans drive. It’s a wonder you’re not born with your fingers attached to tiny steering wheels, and little hooters in your heads.”